


Whiskey

by rxseinbloom



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Spencer Reid, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-adjacent, Car Sex, Fluff, Fraternization Between Bureau Employees, Friends With Benefits, Hook-Up, Insecurity, Intoxication, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Seriously he's so pretty what the hell, Smut, Spencer has no filter, Spencer is a Mess, Yeah there's fluff, and Derek can't back down from a challenge, gratuitous use of commas, i hope they're in character, oblivious idiots, pretty boy, questionable decisions, some fluff?, they're in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25367215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rxseinbloom/pseuds/rxseinbloom
Summary: “You mean there’s not a formula for this?” Derek feigns surprise, smiling, and it makes Spencer laugh, despite himself. “Put your arms around my neck. Don’t think. Just feel the beat of the music, baby.”The nickname hits him slowly, sweet like honey and twice as thick, coating his veins and his heart but making him feel lighter than air.Or, Spencer issues a challenge, and Derek can't resist.
Relationships: Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid
Comments: 30
Kudos: 248





	1. Golden//Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first ever multi-chapter fic!  
> I've been rolling this fwb idea around in my head for a little over a month, and I'm super excited to finally see it on paper.  
> I hope you enjoy reading as much as I've enjoyed writing! Comments are my fuel, and feedback is appreciated!
> 
> Special thanks to my incredible beta @dilaudiddreams for putting up with me and my bs, ilysm.

There’s always something unpleasant about clubs. Spencer doesn’t know if it’s the hot, humid air, the loud music, or the way the floors are always perpetually _sticky_ , but he doesn’t like it.

How he found himself here, two shots in at a table, (also slightly sticky), with Prentiss, Garcia, and Morgan, he _also_ doesn’t know, and is the tiniest bit too intoxicated to think about. He remembers Derek saying something about “loosening up,” and Spencer would be damned if _that_ hadn’t made him lose more brain function than the alcohol currently running through his veins.

Music from the speakers has left the four of them perpetually having to yell, and Spencer is sure his ears will be ringing soon. The lights are too bright, and he finds himself distracted by the mass of people out on the floor, dancing and grinding and _how the hell were people okay with being packed in tight as sardines like that?_

“Listen – the _sexiest_ thing about a guy is confidence. Not over the top, obviously, it pisses me off when they’re cocky but like…you know?” Penelope’s voice drifts into Spencer’s periphery, and he snaps his attention back to the table.

Emily, blunt as ever, shrugs and leans back in her seat. “I do _not_ know. I like _women_.”

“It’s an evolutionary trait. Males who display confidence and bravery are generally regarded as more likely to produce viable offspring, and females of the species are naturally drawn to them – it’s basically a mating display.” Spencer says, chewing at the plastic straw in his drink before he takes a sip.

The burn and sourness in the back of his throat is needed; it keeps him from being _completely_ annoyed when Derek speaks up next to him, leaning into Spencer’s personal space with a teasing smile.

“ _Mating display_? What, you callin’ men animals or something, genius?”

Derek is definitely relaxed. Spencer can tell from the way he leans against the younger man’s shoulder and stays there, a flush high on his cheeks. His skin radiates warmth from under that _damn_ leather jacket, and Spencer is probably tipsy himself; Morgan’s weight against him and the scent of his cologne are far too comforting in the crowded and disorienting atmosphere.

“I mean – from an evolutionary standpoint? Obviously. You took high school biology too, right? That’s like, basic knowledge.” Spencer doesn’t know why he’s defensive, but he tightens his shoulders in on himself anyway.

“Alright, alright, fine.” Derek leans back, hands raised in mock-surrender. “So, you’re saying that all this irresistible charm is, what, _hereditary?_ Because I know for damn sure I have a few skills that I do _not_ want to think about my Pops having.”

Emily rolls her eyes, “Irresistible my _ass_.”

Derek looks incredulous for a minute before narrowing his eyes at her, “Okay, but you’re a _lesbian._ ”

“No, no, she’s _right._ ” Spencer says, grabbing one of the full shot glasses from the center of the table and throwing it back quickly, a stray curl falling into his eyes.

_Bold. Too fucking bold._

Clearing his throat, he continues. “There’s _no way_ , seriously, even statistically, that your ‘charm’ or whatever is _irresistible_ to all…straight women.” Spencer raises an eyebrow, and he’s honestly a little concerned for his own stability (he’s not _that_ much of a lightweight, is he?)

Derek huffs out a breath, “Statistically? Give me some numbers then, kid.” He gestures sarcastically with his free hand and takes a drink of whiskey, ( _masculine, strong, forty-six percent alcohol by volume_ ), with the other.

Spencer doesn’t know any numbers off the top of his head. _When has that ever happened before?_

“Uh –”

“Nah, I’m just messing with you.” Derek sets his glass down and stands, stretching, “Also. I never said anything about it being only ladies.” He flashes that signature, _sexy_ grin and saunters away, leaving Spencer to gawk at his retreating figure and struggle to comprehend what had just happened.

“Did he just…is he...?” Emily breaks the silence, practically reading Spencer’s thoughts.

“Oh, honey, are you telling me you seriously _didn’t know_?” Penelope practically shrieks. “I thought you were the _gay one_.” She turns to Spencer quickly, “Did _you_ know?”

Spencer’s face suddenly feels too hot, and he tugs at the collar of his shirt uncomfortably. “N-no.”

Somehow, that seems to satisfy them, and the two women turn back to a new conversation, pointing out people dancing, people arguing, everything in between; oblivious to the way Spencer has seized up beside them, eyes darting around in an effort to find something, _anything_ else to focus on.

Emily and Penelope stand, and Spencer briefly registers Emily yelling something about “…going to… gonna go _dance._ ”

He sits back, finishing off his drink and continuing to chew on his straw as his mind wanders.

That strange, blazing, not-entirely-unpleasant feeling of _want_ threatens to burst out of his chest and consume him whole. He usually pushes it down, pretends it’s not there, because they’re _coworkers_ for the love of god – and even then, why would Derek want someone like him?

The burn in the back of his throat isn’t just from the whiskey in his cocktail. 

It threatens to choke him.

Derek’s words, _nine_ words, have brought the _what-ifs_ and _maybes_ to the surface of his mind again. The thoughts he only lets himself have when he’s alone in his apartment, eyes shut tightly as he bites down on the palm of his free hand to muffle his moaning. The thoughts he never lets see the light of day.

_It’s not daytime anymore_ , whispers a voice in his head, the one that only comes out in the dark. 

_Shut up,_ he whispers back.

Spencer swallows harshly, pulling his lips into a thin line and leaning back in his chair, eyes scanning the crowd for a familiar, leather-clad figure, as if willing Derek to appear next to him will make his torrent of thoughts recede.

It’s a paradox how the source of his anxieties is also the one that most often calms them.

Almost as soon as he thinks of him, Morgan is making his way back to the table, a glass of water in his hand and a smile on his face. Spencer tries to pretend he doesn’t immediately sit up a little straighter. 

“You know, the phone numbers I got offered on the way back over here seem to contradict your theory.” Derek says, removing his jacket and pulling his chair around to straddle it, arms folded across the top.

Derek moves way too smoothly for Spencer’s fuzzy mind, and the tattoos peeking out from the tight sleeves of his t-shirt do absolutely nothing to quell his intrusive, intoxicated, _inappropriate_ thoughts.

“Don’t worry, pretty boy, I didn’t take any of them. It’s my job to take you home tonight, remember?”

Spencer knows he’s imagining the tender, careful way Derek speaks, like Spencer is his responsibility to keep safe, but it still fills him with a soft warmth..

That softness fades quickly as his id takes over. He’s never taken stock in Freud (in fact, he thinks he was a pompous ass), but what else could possibly explain the dirty, hidden thoughts he so often held for his teammate? 

Theoretically, he knows; neurotransmitters, oxytocin and dopamine, the human core motive to belong – whatever. It’s easier to ignore when he doesn’t try to give it a name, even a scientific one.

Against his will, his mind latches onto the phrase ‘take you home,’ running it over and over through his inhibited processing system, feeding into a fantasy he knows can never be reality. It sinks hooks into his skin, curling up next to his heart and refusing to move. 

“Why don’t you, then? If you’re so _irresistible_?” Okay, what the _fuck?_ Where had that come from?

Derek’s eyes darken imperceptibly. “What?”

“Take me home,” Spencer murmurs, raising his eyebrow. A challenge. “I’m going to go sit at the bar and I bet you… hm…fifty bucks you can’t convince me to go home with you. _Woo me,_ Derek Morgan.”

Derek takes the bait instantly, leaning back and looking almost impressed. “Alright, bet.”

Spencer reaches out a hand to shake on it, but Derek declines, shrugging. “I trust you. Besides, it’s not like you’re going to win. I’m only worried that you put your money where your mouth is.”

Spencer stands, running his hands through his hair with fingers he _thinks_ might be shaking before pulling out his wallet and proving he’s got the cash. Spying a free stool at the bar, he starts to walk away, but not before making eye contact with Derek one more time.

Derek’s dark brown eyes are burning with _something,_ and Spencer stumbles, taken aback by the intensity.

He should probably stop drinking.

Spencer knows he’s not _drunk_. He can tell because the music is still too loud, and he still feels the need to douse his entire body in hand sanitizer, but he feels warm and more comfortable than usual.

He almost trips over his feet as he walks towards the bar. It’s the heady scent of Derek’s cologne, still lingering, that’s got him feeling lightheaded and weak in the knees, not the alcohol.

“Hey, pretty boy,” Derek whistles, and Spencer whips his head around instantly like a lovesick puppy. “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

* * *

Sitting at the crowded bar alone is _infinitely_ worse than sitting at the table had been, and Spencer tries desperately not to give up immediately, tries not to go back to his friends to lose both his dignity and fifty dollars. 

He asks for a glass of water absentmindedly and tries to relax. 

Turning slightly to his left, he catches a pair of dark brown eyes watching him and can’t help the way his cheeks immediately warm. Spencer glances away quickly, but still sees Derek rise from his seat at the end of the bar and make his way towards him out of the corner of his eye.

Sliding into the empty space next to Spencer, Morgan looks him up and down before smiling. He’s put his jacket back on, and his classic, flirtatious grin sends the butterflies in Spencer’s stomach into a frenzy.

“You know, you could just order a snack instead of gnawing on your straw like that.”

Derek _knows_ that’s a nervous tic, he _must_ ; he’s been around Spencer for five years, for godssake.

Spencer huffs, narrowing his eyes slightly. _Is this his ‘charm?’ Being an asshole?_ Before he gets a chance to speak, Derek quirks his lips into teasing smirk and chuckles softly.

“Whatcha doing here all alone, hm?”

Spencer shakes his head in annoyance. He’s already regretting the challenge, and he starts to run through the likelihood of this ending poorly in his mind. 

_Stupid._

Maybe he can just give up?

“Morgan, we were literally just at the same table together.” It comes out harsher than he intended, but he’s nervous and the thoughts in his head are somehow louder than the music, though both threaten to deafen him at any moment.

“I’m just following your challenge, pretty boy; you made the rules. What, you givin’ up already?” Derek throws his hands up and raises an eyebrow, still undeniably confident.

And _oh,_ if that doesn’t make Spencer’s blood boil in more ways than one.

“Ugh, _fine_. My friends drug me out tonight, said I needed to ‘take a break’ or something, although ‘break’ seems to mean ‘tequila shot’ in their language…I honestly have no idea why I didn’t just go home.” Spencer shakes his head, playing the “innocent” role with a soft smile and even softer, curious eyes.

“A ‘break,’ huh? Makes sense, you look like you could use one. Or several.”

“Excuse me? What about me makes you say that?” He knows, of course. Everything about him screams _anxious mess_ , but he finds himself wanting to hear the answer anyway.

“I mean, look at you. You’re dressed like a stressed-out teacher’s assistant. What are you, a professor or something?”

“I, uh, I work for the Bureau, actually. Also, if you’re trying to flirt with me… I don’t really think insulting my clothes is exactly the best path for you to take?”

“Whoa, hey, I never said it didn’t _work_ for you. I like it. You’ve got this ‘eccentric genius’ vibe about you, it’s kinda hot.” Morgan pauses for a moment then says, under his breath, “Too many layers, in my opinion.”

Spencer’s brain short circuits, and for the second time, Derek takes advantage of his silence.

“You wanna dance?” It’s forward, bold, and it makes Spencer’s stomach twist in a mix of nerves and desire.

Spencer’s eyes widen and he bites his lip. “I, uh, don’t know how?”

“I can teach you, pretty boy.” Derek stands and offers his arm, every bit a gentleman. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

Hesitantly, Spencer takes his hand, hoping his palms aren’t too sweaty. Their skin touches, and Spencer feels like he’s been hit with a bucket of cold water. The realization bites at him; _he’s going to lose._

As they weave through the crowd, Spencer finds himself enamored by the way people move out of their path, how Morgan catches the obvious eye of the dancers they pass, regardless of gender.

“How do you do that?” Spencer asks, loudly. “What’s it like to always have someone’s eyes on you?” 

“You should know, beautiful.” Derek releases Spencer’s hand to move it to his slender waist, pulling him so his back is pulled flush to the older man’s warm, muscular front. _Damn._ “You’ve _always_ got my attention.”

Normally, Spencer would’ve rolled his eyes at a cheesy line like that, but instead he finds himself blushing and biting down on the inside of his lip. He feels Derek’s hips start to sway against his, but he stands stock-still, nervous and uncertain.

“ _Hey,”_ Derek stills, eyes soft and concerned, a far cry from the heat that had been behind them moments ago.

“Is this okay?”

Spencer nods, drawing in a breath. “I just _really_ don’t know how to dance.” He admits sheepishly. “Did you know that cave drawings of dance rituals can be traced as far back as six-thousand BC? And there are drawings of German romantic partner dances as old as the fifteen hundreds. All those years of history, and yet I never learned to put it into practice.”

“You mean there’s _not_ a formula for this?” Derek feigns surprise, smiling, and it makes Spencer laugh, despite himself. “Put your arms around my neck. Don’t think. Just feel the beat of the music, baby.”

The nickname hits him slowly, sweet like honey and twice as thick, coating his veins and his heart but making him feel lighter than air.

Spencer complies, chewing on his lip and trying to focus on the beat of the music rather than the volume. He _feels_ it, more than hears it; the deep, pounding bass resonates from his feet all the way through his bones and up to his head, which he leans back slightly to rest against Morgan’s shoulder.

“That’s it. Now just _move._ ” Derek practically purrs into his ear, which sends Spencer’s blood rushing straight southward as he begins to sway his hips against the other man.

It’s _dirty._ Spencer feels a wild mix of embarrassment and arousal as he tightens his arms around Derek’s neck and presses his hips back, chasing the foreign, desperate feeling threatening to well up inside of him.

Derek’s breath is hot against the paper-thin skin of Spencer’s neck, and he nods firmly when he hears a faint “Still okay?” whispered in his ear.

He feels lips attach to his pulse point, warm and velvet-soft. It’s a sharp contrast from the way Derek’s hands grip firmly onto Spencer’s hips as they dance.

It’s been almost an hour when he hears Derek’s deep voice from behind him.

“You wanna get out of here?”

Spencer can’t trust his own voice – God knows it’s gotten him into enough trouble tonight – so he just nods, stepping away with a soft smile. He’s lost the bet, yet he can’t help but feel happy about it.

“Lead the way.”

* * *

It’s cold in the parking lot, and Derek pulls his jacket more tightly around himself before tucking Spencer closely into his side as he fishes for his key in his back pocket and starts pressing the buttons in an effort to remember where he’d parked (not everyone could have a memory as good as his gorgeous genius). 

_Can he just hold him a little longer? Keep his arm around that thin, pretty waist and keep the lingering taste of salt on his tongue? Pretend this is real?_

Derek wants to. _Goddamn_ does he want to, more than anything. He wants to hold his thin, pale hand in his own, wants to cover his face in kisses and follow his pretty pink blush down under his collar, see how far it goes. He wants those lithe legs wrapped around his waist, wants to hear that mouth gasping and whining instead of spouting off statistics, wants to –

The flashing lights and horn of his truck as he presses the lock button startle him out of his reverie. He lets go of the younger man faster than he should, pushing himself away with a little more force than necessary. If Spencer notices, he doesn’t comment.

“Alright,” Derek says, trying desperately to haphazardly rebuild some of his walls as he leans against the side of his truck. “I won. Pay up, Reid.”

When Spencer speaks, it’s so quiet that Derek almost misses it, and he sees him shudder with a chill. Derek wants to wrap him up in his coat and then his arms and take him someplace where it’s warm year-round.

“You didn’t technically _take me home_ yet, you know.”

“’Scuse me?”

“What if you…” he trails off, gazing into the distance for a moment before Derek clears his throat, snapping him back to the conversation at hand. “What if you _actually_ did take me home?”

Derek wants to brush it off, wants to make some stupid joke about how he _is_ technically taking Spencer home, back to his own (empty) apartment, but he can’t bring himself to.

“You still drunk, babe?” Derek tries to ignore how the endearment rolls of his tongue so easily, so sweetly.

“No.” Spencer replies matter-of-factly, arms crossing over his chest. “It takes the human body approximately one hour to metabolize one-point-five ounces of alcohol – that’s one shot – and it’s been almost two since I had anything other than water to drink.”

In an instant, Spencer is in his personal space again, doe-eyed and blushing as he tentatively rests a hand against Derek’s chest.

“Take me home?”

Derek hopes he can’t feel how fucking quickly his heart is pounding, like it’s going to burst out of his chest at any moment and spill all his secrets at Spencer’s feet.

_Oh._

Later, Derek would replay this moment over again in his head, hoping to immortalize those big, hazel eyes and the even bigger smile on Spencer’s perfect face as Derek places an equally soft hand on the side of his neck.

“Y-yeah. Sure. Get in, sweetheart.”

* * *

The ride to Derek’s apartment is quiet, but not awkwardly so. Soft jazz from the radio filters into Spencer’s mind, and he watches the city lights fly by at a (mildly) alarming pace. (The D.C. area averages more speeding tickets per year than half of the rest of the country. Spencer briefly wonders how many Derek has received.)

Derek doesn’t let go of Spencer’s waist the entire walk from his truck to his front door, and they stumble up the stairs, perfectly sober but high on the energy of _we shouldn’t be doing this, but we’re going to anyway._

After the delay of trying to unlock the door (made considerably more difficult by Spencer’s lips attached to his neck), Derek finds himself pressed up against the wall in his entryway as Spencer falls to his knees, hands already working to cup the bulge in Derek’s jeans and unlatch his belt.

There’s a wildfire in Spencer’s veins, one that usually stays a single spark in the deepest recesses of his mind. A hedonistic, Dionysian, twelve hundred other words he can’t think of flame that’s singing in his blood and making his heart pound impossibly faster as his legs make contact with the hardwood floor.

Spencer knows he isn’t the _most_ experienced, but he knows enough to make Derek feel _good,_ and he looks up hopefully as he places a soft, experimental lick to the head of his length before diving in with adorable enthusiasm, pupils dilated so far they almost hide his pretty hazel irises.

Derek moans, and it encourages Spencer to move faster, bobbing his head gently and hollowing his cheeks.

“Fuck.” Derek hisses, hand moving to grip Spencer’s pretty, soft hair. “You don’t waste any time, do you? God baby, that feels so good.”

Spencer keens at the praise, the vibration causing Derek to tighten his grip and tug for him to pull off, lest Derek finishes as quickly as they began.

“Wanna get more comfortable?”

Spencer nods, and rises from the floor, legs unsteady as Derek presses a single open-mouthed kiss to the spot just below his open collar. (He hadn’t even noticed Derek popping the button). 

They move quickly, voices hushed like anxious teenagers. Spencer finds himself pushed down onto the bed with a perfect amount of force, and he gasps in a soft breath as he watches Derek pull his shirt up and over his head before diving back in to leave hot kisses down the column of Spencer’s throat.

“Still okay?” Derek asks, fingers hooked in the waistband of the younger man’s slacks.

“Yes. Please.” Spencer whines, moving to grip and Derek’s wrists, to push him to _get on with it already_.

Spencer hears the vaguely familiar _pop_ of a cap, hissing slightly at the cold sensation that quickly turns to heated pleasure. Derek makes quick work of the preparation, which would usually disappoint Spencer, but he’d have plenty of time to think about that later.

“By the way,” Derek whispers, eyes bright and mischievous in the faint moonlight shining through the curtains, “you don’t owe me fifty bucks anymore.”

“I _technically_ won though.” Spencer says, the confidence in his voice completely contradicted by the way he’s crying out and writhing atop Derek’s cotton bed sheets. “I convinced _you_ to go home with me.”

Spencer laughs, (it’s the prettiest sound Derek has ever heard in his life), but it quickly turns into a helpless, wanton moan as Derek moves to cover his lithe body with his own.

* * *

Spencer wakes up with a slight throbbing behind his eyes, a greater throbbing in his lower back and hips, and a dark purple bruise on his collarbone in an unfamiliar bed with unfamiliar light peeking through the window shades. 

_Fuck._


	2. Bitters//Legs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, oblivious pining, and a confrontation. 
> 
> Or, Derek is in love, Emily knows more than she should, and Spencer is just a little bit of a bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Here we are again, finally. Thank you so much for those of you that stuck with me through a few weeks of difficulty, and a welcome to new readers! 
> 
> As always, sending love to my beta reader @dilaudiddreams, thank you for everything, I love you!

Spencer sits up slowly, squinting against the sunlight and rubbing his eyes, heavy with sleep and questionable decisions.

He takes a moment to scan his surroundings, biting the inside of his cheek 

Dark grey walls and dark wood furniture, some of which looks homemade or at least customized.

Sunlight streams through the slats of the blinds, leaving fuzzy patterns across the far wall, where a single framed photo hangs (he’s pretty sure it’s the team on _his_ birthday, actually).

The scent of pine, cedar, and a campfire smoke-scent he can’t quite place… it’s warm, homey, and basically the exact opposite of where he had planned to wake up this Saturday morning. 

Spencer swings his legs over the edge of the bed, foot tangling in the sheets (grey, jersey knit, soft) as he stands and stretches. The twinge of discomfort in his abdomen has his eyes snapping open, drawing in a sharp breath through his nose and biting down harder on his cheek as he’s forcibly reminded of the previous night’s activities.

_Stupid._

His mind races; _the smell of sweat and smoke in the bar. Whispers and whines as that swirling, ugly want in his mind was satiated, as years of fantasies become reality. Warm, calloused hands wrapping around his hips as soft lips latched onto his neck._ Hands he’s seen holding files and cups of coffee, steady with a Glock leveled at a threat, strong where he latches handcuffs. Hands that have played a prominent role in his dreams far more often than he’d like to admit.

 _Morgan’s_ hands _. Fuck._

Spencer grabs his cardigan off the floor – _gross_ , _he hates leaving his clothes on the floor_ – and pulls it on over his bare chest, eyes flitting up to glance at himself in the mirror that hangs against the wall.

His hair is disheveled, and he pulls his sweater more tightly around himself as he notices the deep purple marks trailing down his neck and over his collarbone.

He tries to avoid analyzing the sudden rush of heat that singes through his blood as he presses his thumb to a mark below his ear, the dull pain made sharper by pressure.

A second later, he hears a soft beep from the nightstand, where his phone sits next to his glasses. He puts them on, taking a moment to be thankful he’d chosen to wear them instead of his contacts the night before, and grabs his phone.

As he does so, a slip of paper falls to the ground. It’s folded over once, and he grabs it, wincing again as the sudden movement pulls at his abdomen and makes his thighs tremble.

 _He tries not to find that unbearably hot. Really, he does._

The note is scratched out in Morgan’s achingly familiar handwriting, but it reads phrases Spencer _never_ expected to have directed towards him.

_Last night was fun. Text me some time, we should do it again. – Derek_

A phone number Spencer’s had in his contacts for five years is scribbled at the bottom, followed by a single ‘x.’ Spencer laughs to himself at the irony. The way he’d spent the past night was absolutel _y_ _not_ in line with the Christian origins of the symbol, but he wasn’t exactly mad about it. A cross at the bottom of a letter, sealed with a kiss to represent sincerity and righteousness. 

_Yeah. Definitely not._

He unlocks his phone to a single text from Emily, and for once, he can hear her smug tone despite the digital format.

_So… get home safe last night?_

The wink and playful nudge are implied, and Spencer shifts his weight uncomfortably to one foot. He runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it and tries not to spiral into the implications of the message.

_God, sometimes, he hates profilers._

He ignores replying in favor of glancing around the room again, unable to put a name to the emotions swirling in his mind. 

It’s a strange thing, to have such an intimate look into his teammate’s living space. He tries to push down the fondness he feels as he eyes the photographs on the dresser, the stack of books on the nightstand, the papers scattered across the small desk. He tries to pretend he doesn’t wish he could extend this moment forever.

He tries, but he fails. Miserably.

A gust of cold air blows through the slightly-open window, and Spencer reaches down again to grab his pants and undershirt, dressing quickly and pulling his thin sweater on again. The bedroom door is ajar, and he hears soft music filtering through the morning air. 

_Damn_ . He’d really assumed Derek would be gone, given the note and the late morning hour – how he managed to function before six in the morning, Spencer would never understand – but of _course_ the universe wouldn’t let Spencer be so lucky.

Taking a deep breath, he steps lightly into the hallway, the hardwood floor cold through his socks, and tries to figure out what on _Earth_ he’s supposed to say.

_Hey, thanks for the mind-blowing sex, see you at work on Monday?_

_Last night was great, I’ve been dreaming about it since basically the day I met you and don’t know what I’m supposed to do with myself now. Got any coffee?_

_I think I might be in love with you, Derek Morgan…?_

He shakes his head violently. _Hell no, not today._

As he steps into the kitchen, his gaze is drawn immediately to the man in question, dressed in warm workout gear and sipping on a mug of coffee. Their eyes meet, and Spencer hopes he doesn’t look as much like a deer in headlights as he feels.

“Mornin’, pretty boy. Sleep well?” Derek’s voice holds its typical timbre; that confident, almost teasing tone that always filters across the bullpen and sticks like rose thorns in Spencer’s mind.

The butterflies in Spencer’s stomach increase tenfold, and his face heats up despite the chill in the air.

He rubs his fingers together, thumb against middle – an old habit he’s had so long there’s a permanent indent next to his cuticle – and smiles softly. “Yeah, actually.” He really _had;_ he realizes with a start. Safe, satiated and warm in Derek’s arms.

As Derek moves to pour a second mug of coffee, humming to himself, Spencer is overwhelmed by how _domestic_ this feels, how _comfortable._

_He wants to stay like this forever._

The realization settles into his veins, first like warm, sweet molasses and then like ice, crystalizing his insides and making him shiver.

Derek notices, and he raises an eyebrow. “The temperature dropped like nine degrees last night, it’s pretty damn cold out there for November.” He points to the armchair closest to Spencer, where a dark green sweatshirt is thrown haphazardly over the top.

“Put that on, don’t want our little genius freezing to death.”

Spencer does as he’s told, blushing, and resists the urge to bury his face in the neckline of the soft fabric. It smells like Derek; pine, cedar, the faint scent of gunpowder.

Another little voice, the one he hears from twice as often and three times as loud, peeks out from the darkness and into the morning light. _Wrong. Forbidden. Pathetic._ He needs to get home before he does something else he regrets.

Spencer speaks suddenly, voice cracking with a combination of sleep and anxiety. “I actually – I completely forgot, I have to finish critiquing a recommendation by midnight a- and … I’ve barely started it. I – I need to get home soon.”

If Derek recognizes the lie, he hides it well, nodding and turning to collect his keys and wallet. He steps towards Spencer, offering him a travel mug and a soft smile.

“Here, this’ll warm you up too. Don’t worry, it’s about seventy-five percent sugar.”

Spencer accepts the mug with a soft ‘thank you,’ forcing his free arm down to his side, lest he do something idiotic like throw it around Derek’s neck and kiss him.

God, he’s hopeless.

* * *

The ride to Spencer’s apartment is _decidedly_ more awkward than the night before, and Derek _hates_ it.

The same soft music filters through the speakers, but it’s almost drowned out by the way the poor kid’s long leg is bouncing rapidly against the floorboard as he toys with the strings of Derek’s sweatshirt. Derek resists the urge to reach over and place a soothing hand on his thigh.

As they pull up outside the small brownstone apartment building, Spencer hesitates for a moment before turning to face Derek in the driver’s seat. His lips and cheeks are still flushed from the cold, and Derek wants to wrap him up in a thick blanket and kiss the tip of his adorable nose. _Whoa. Stop it._

“You, uh,” the younger man starts, reaching up to pick at the skin of his chapped lips. “You left me your phone number? On the nightstand. I already have your number, Morgan. I’ve had it for years.”

Derek unlocks the doors, prompting Spencer to reach for the handle, and clears his throat.

“Yeah, I was finishing the bet. ‘Takin’ you home.’” He waves air quotes, grinning. “I leave my number if I think I may want to meet up with someone again. Honestly, doesn’t really happen all that often.” He shrugs half-heartedly, hoping it will hide his nervousness.

He’s being far more open than he wants to be, but his carefully constructed walls are still a little cracked from where Spencer had come crashing through with his loose words and wanton lips.

He thinks he might leave them that way. The cracks are where the light gets in.

Derek doesn’t really expect a reply, and he doesn’t get one. Spencer opens the car door, stepping out into the crisp air with little more than a glance over his shoulder as he makes his way up the cement stairs.

“Hey, Reid.” Derek calls. _Please. Please look at me with those pretty brown eyes one more time._

 _One more time before they go back to real life._ Before Reid is just his gangly, awkward, off-limits coworker again. Before Derek forgets the way Spencer’s porcelain skin felt under his fingertips, the way his pretty lips fell open with a sigh, the way he left stinging scratches across Derek’s bare chest and shoulders as he cried out in the night.

"See you Monday.”

As he watches Spencer nod and then disappear through the front door, he realizes he’s still wearing the oversized forest green sweatshirt.

He _definitely_ doesn’t spend the rest of the weekend thinking about Spencer wearing his clothes.

Absolutely not.

* * *

Derek feels uncharacteristically exhausted on Monday morning.

He tells himself it’s because he ran a few extra miles Sunday evening, absolutely _not_ because he spent half the night staring at his ceiling, thinking about how angelic Spencer had looked with his tousled hair and rosy cheeks against white sheets in the early morning light.

Sighing, he kicks his feet up onto his desk – Hotch isn’t in yet, what he doesn’t know won’t kill him – and tries to focus on the file JJ had left on his desk for a preliminary read-through.

It’s a bad one; two families abducted and killed over the course of four months at a campground in South Dakota. At each scene, riddles and codes had scattered the room, Zodiac-esque in their taunts and written in a mixture of blood and singed charcoal.

It didn’t matter how long he’d been doing this job; Derek still feels his stomach flip uncomfortably as he opens to the photos. _Penelope is going to hate this._ He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before diving back in.

Glancing over the photographed ciphers, Derek can’t help but feel a small twinge of pride; his wonderful resident genius will crack them in no time. Easy.

 _His._

Derek jerks upright, nearly upsetting the mug of coffee balanced precariously next to his computer. He needs to cut that shit out _real_ quick. Spencer isn’t his. Never has been.

_Never will be,_ Derek thinks, and he’s taken aback by the sheer amount of _bitterness_ he feels at the thought.

Ten minutes later, the rest of the team begins to filter in, first JJ and Emily, whispering quietly amongst themselves as they exit the elevator, then Rossi, Hotch and Penelope, who waves at Derek before making her way up the stairs and to her office. 

Reid comes in last, hair a typical mess and eyes that look as tired as Derek feels, and makes a beeline straight for the coffee pot. Derek finds his gaze drawn towards the younger man, despite himself, and he allows just one moment to glance down the arch of his back and his long legs, clad in slacks that hug just the right curves.

_If Penelope were here, she’d tell him that he was practically drooling. Ridiculous._

The younger man greets Derek with a nonchalant ‘hey’ and sits down with a huff, rubbing tiredly at his eyes as he pulls out his files and a pen.

“Whoa, you look exhausted, Spence.” Emily says as way of greeting, leaning against the divider between their desks and grinning mischievously. “Long weekend?”

Spencer shrugs and makes a noncommittal sound, glancing up as he says, “Not really. Boring.”

Derek tries to pretend he doesn’t see the genius’s heated, teasing gaze flit towards him for a split second before turning back to Emily.

_Oh, so we’re gonna play it that way then, huh, pretty boy?_

“Ah, I see,” Emily says, and Derek doesn’t think he imagines the way she glances in his direction.

“Had a date with a hot _book_ , then? Tell me, did it leave that mark on your neck?” She pokes at the bruise in question, small and still faintly purple below Reid’s ear, and Spencer jerks a hand up to push her away, flushing bright red.

Derek’s eyes widen, and he takes a sip of coffee to keep himself from saying anything stupid.

JJ whistles for them from the round table before Spencer can reply, and Derek is silently thankful he hadn’t gotten a chance to speak. He wasn’t sure if he could handle more of that bratty, teasing _bullshit_ Reid seemed determined to pull. Derek might say something he regrets.

Sleep deprivation and this bothersome, distracting feeling of… what? Lust? Infatuation?

He doesn’t know.

Reid would know. He always had a word for everything, drawn from some long-forgotten Latin manuscript or from the dictionary he practically had memorized.

Whatever the hell it is, Derek is completely and utterly _fucked._

* * *

Spencer is in a terrible mood.

It had taken him hours to fall asleep, and the moment his eyelids had closed, they’d been painted with the same memories that had plagued him all week. Whispered praises juxtaposed with bruises along his neck, hands against his hips and pulling at his hair; his logic is clouded by a haze of heavy breath and overwhelming pleasure.

He’d awoken, gasping for breath and achingly hard, more times in the last week than in the past several months. A brief lapse in his lateral orbitofrontal cortex, two hours at the most, has left his mind wandering for almost a week. He feels like a teenager again. It’s getting ridiculous.

The bullpen is empty except for him and the very subject of his dreams, and he’s been tense for the last half hour, begging his brain not to do anything stupid.

“You want some coffee?” Morgan calls across the room. Spencer knows he’s trying to be kind, trying to make him feel safe and included the way he _always does._

It makes him that much more difficult to avoid.

It makes Spencer that much more intoxicated by his presence.

“I can get my own, thanks.” Spencer snaps, rolling his neck and doing his best to look annoyed. He’s being petulant and he knows it. At this point, he’s too tired and confused to care.

Derek narrows his eyes, fingers crooking in a ‘come-hither’ motion that makes an unbidden heat pool in Spencer’s knotted stomach. Spencer knew this would come eventually, but he still huffs with distaste as he stands and follows the older man into the hallway off the pen.

“Okay, kid. What the hell is up with you?” Derek eyes him steadily, jaw clenched and arms crossed. He’s defensive, obviously, but Spencer notices the way his brow is furrowed with _concern_ , not anger. “You’ve been avoiding me all week.”

Spencer bites his lip in annoyance, tilting his head to the side. There are a few ways he can approach this, and neither of them are necessarily desirable.

He could avoid it, tell Derek he’s imagining things, brush past him and go back to his desk in the empty, dark bullpen and feign interest in a cold case file. It would be easy, quick, and Spencer could pretend that he was unaffected in the same way he had been all week.

It would also leave that same, gnawing hunger in his core and empty feeling in his heart.

Instead, he chooses to take a page from his own book, the confidence and challenging air of Friday night. What had gotten him into this whole mess in the first place.

“I didn’t really think it would bother you, ‘player.’” Apparently, his sleep-deprived mind has decided to go for bitchy, not ‘confident.’ Cool.

Derek straightens instantly. “’Scuse me?”

“What did you expect? You want me to be all over you like those girls in the club? Sorry, I’m not exactly the _type._ ” He knows that he’s being unfair, but he has to find some way to satiate that little voice in the darkness, before it turns on _him_ instead.

“Whoa, whoa, _whoa._ What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Derek’s voice is sharp, demanding.

Spencer swallows, voice threatening to break as he tries to continue his charade. “I just – I don’t… what the hell is ‘ _I could see it happening again’_ supposed to mean?” He parrots Derek’s words from Saturday, hands waving air quotes in front of him.

He moves as if to walk away, _he can’t do this,_ but he’s stopped by Derek’s arm blocking his path.

Derek raises an eyebrow, and his expression morphs into one of amusement. “It means exactly that, genius.”

“Seriously? What happened to the whole ‘one-night stand, ladies’ man’ thing? Your entire personality practically _screams_ “no strings attached.” I’m not different, and you know it.”

The voice in the back of his head silently begs Spencer to keep talking, to ask what he so desperately wants to. _Is_ he different? _Could Derek, somehow, want something more from him?_

_Does he really want to ‘do it again?’_

The last question sends another jolt of heat through him, and he clenches his jaw. _Stop it._

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Derek’s voice has taken on a colder edge, and it hurts Spencer in a way he didn’t expect, but he’s on a roll now, so he continues.

“Oh, really?” He rolls his eyes, “I thought you were _‘irresistible_?’ You’ve told us more stories than I can count about girls leaving your apartment at three AM; how you never go home alone. Even, it seems, if you take home a _coworker._

As soon as he closes his mouth, Spencer kind of wants to throw up. His mind races, and he finds himself, not for the first time, regretting ever speaking at all, both Friday and in this moment. Looking down at his feet, he stammers out an apology.

“I – I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from. Derek, I didn’t mean – “

“Shut up.” The tone is sharp, demanding, and Spencer’s gaze snaps up to meet Derek’s eyes.

Rather than anger, he finds the same fiery gaze that had flashed through his mind a hundred times in the past week. It’s a challenge, open and inviting.

Spencer inhales sharply and licks his lips, eyes darkening.

“Make me.”

In an instant, he finds himself pushed back against the wall, and he barely registers taking a breath before Derek’s lips are on his, hot and insistent as large hands come up to grip his jaw. It’s messy, the clash of teeth sudden, making Spencer clench his eyes shut as his brain struggles to catch up with the sudden onslaught of pleasure.

_Derek Morgan is kissing him._

Spencer whines, wrapping his arms around Derek’s broad shoulders and pulling him impossibly closer as he kisses back like he’s starving for it. (He _has been,_ in a way.) Derek grips his hair, pulling his head to the side to expose his neck, nearly free of the marks from a week ago. As he bends to mark the same spot below Spencer’s ear, Spencer pulls away, his voice breathy and high. 

“N – no marks above the collar. Emily noticed.”

“Oh? Keeping it a secret. I like that, babe.” Derek grins mischievously before his fingers move to deftly unhook the top two buttons of Spencer’s shirt. Thank god he’d forgone the tie.

Spencer moans embarrassingly loudly as he feels a sharp bite at his collarbone. Their lips meet again, and he catches Derek’s lower lip between his own, tugging lightly. He’s breathing hard, and he presses his hips closer, desperately seeking some kind of friction.

“Derek – fuck, _please_.” He sounds _wrecked,_ completely and utterly desperate. He can’t find it in himself to feel embarrassed.

“Easy, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” Derek pushes a jean-clad leg between Spencer’s own trembling ones, and his hands grip Spencer’s hips, lifting and maneuvering the smaller man to press down against his thigh. Spencer whines helplessly, grinding down in an effort to relieve the pressure building in his veins.

Spencer reaches for the buttons of Morgan’s shirt with trembling hands, but the older man shakes his head, laughing softly as he reaches up to pin Spencer’s wrists above him with one hand. Spencer thinks he may spontaneously combust.

“This is about you, babe,” he smiles against Spencer’s lips. “C’mon. Let go.”

Helplessly, Spencer gasps out a litany of pleas: “Der – I can’t… I need,” again, “ _please._ ” He’s desperate, unimaginably turned on and about to burst in his pants like a teenager just from making out.

“Shhh, angel. It’s okay.” The endearment makes him flush crimson, and he kisses Morgan deeply, their tongues sliding together as he moans again.

Derek’s free hand slips into the front of his pants, stroking his length twice, maybe three times before he cums with a cry, biting down against Derek’s neck and continuing to rock against him. Soft, breathy noises continue to escape from his throat, and he inhales heavily, trying to calm his racing heart.

Spencer buries his face in the crook of Derek’s neck as his wrists are released from above his head and he feels the blood rush back into his fingers. A tap under his chin guides his hazel eyes, glistening slightly, up to meet Derek’s warm amber gaze, shining with mirth.

A soft kiss is pressed to the corner of his mouth as Morgan pulls away, and Spencer is struck by how _tender_ it seems. He has to stop himself from grabbing at the other man’s shirt to pull him back in. He already seems needy enough, he’s sure.

Slumping back against the wall, Spencer takes a moment to regain his bearings, allowing the dopamine and oxytocin in his blood to slowly course through.

With shaking hands, he adjusts his clothes, wrinkling his nose distastefully at the mess on his shirt. He glances up to find Derek staring at him with a soft smile on his lips, his bottom lip pink and slightly swollen from where Spencer had bitten at it.

“I, uh – I’m still sorry.” He whispers, voice cracking.

“Don’t worry about it,” Derek says, and his deep voice feels deafening in the otherwise silent hallway. He starts to walk away, and a bubble of hope Spencer didn’t even know he’d been holding deflates as he realizes he’ll be going home alone.

As Derek walks away, he stops and glances back over his shoulder.

“Next time, you don’t have to yell at me. Just call.” He winks, _typical,_ and saunters back into the bullpen, gathering his things and heading for the door.

Spencer leans his head back against the wall and whispers a silent thanks to whatever deity he can think of, (including but not limited to one bubbly analyst), that there are no cameras in the hallway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!  
> I'm a slut for feedback; comments are so SO appreciated.  
> Yell at me at rxseinbloom.tumblr.com !

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again for reading! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at rxseinbloom.tumblr.com for more CM content and general tomfoolery.


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